s ingenious argument she answered with so much good sense, and at
the same time, so much gentleness and artlessness, that I thought I
could have listened to her for ever. While I spoke, she continued to
move on. I entreated to know if she was satisfied with my apology;
repeated that I had not meant to intrude on her privacy. She mildly
replied that she was. I then asked permission to call her cousin. She
said she should not object, if it would gave me pleasure. It was, my
dear Atterley, her ineffable sweetness of disposition, and of manners so
entirely free from pride, coquetry, or affectation, in which this lovely
creature excelled all other women, yet more than in beauty and grace. I
then inquired when I should again see my lovely cousin. She replied, "I
walk in the great garden sometimes with my companions, when their
brothers are away; but the girls will not think it proper to walk when
you are there." Perceiving that I looked chagrined, she added: "It is
said, you know, that the light from mens' eyes is yet worse for womens'
faces than the light of the sun;" and she blushed as if she had said
something wrong. I stammered out I know not what extravagant compliment
in reply, and entreated that I might have an opportunity of seeing and
conversing with her sometimes: to which she promptly answered that she
should not object, if her mother approved it. I inquired why she had not
attended the exhibition; when I learnt from her, that, as she had been
slightly indisposed the day before, and her mother being unwilling she
should expose herself to the heat of the weather and the crowd, she had
been left under the care of her nurse; but that finding herself better,
she had permitted her attendants to walk over the grounds, while she
amused herself in embroidery; and that she had come into the garden to
get a fresh supply of the flowers she was working.

"She had by this time approached a small gate, which communicated with
the apartments on the ground-floor of the Zenana; when, turning to me,
she said, "You can return the way you came, but I must leave you here;"
and, making a slight bow, she sprung like a young fawn through the gate,
and was out of sight in a moment.

"You may wonder, my dear Atterley, that I should remember all these
minute circumstances, after the lapse of more than forty years; but
every incident of that day is as fresh in my memory as the occurrence of
yesterday. To this single green spot in my existence